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Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Is it offensive, do you think,
when I gush about my family?
When I smile a secret smile,
remembering my mother,
my father?
I know I am lucky, that so few
men and women
my age
were raised faithfully
from the opening of newborn eyes,
the stretching of red, warm, limbs,
into the realization of firm adulthood.

There are few of us who recognize
the weakness
of our parents,
the humanity of the men and women
who conceived us
birthed us
loved us,
few who know that
honor,
and respect,
mean blessing that humanity,
blessing those humans,
once warm and new themselves,
for doing their very best,
for heaving shining swords
at the sharp edge of life
that runs toward us,
their children,
for fighting while bleeding because
they would not see
one they love
broken,
wounded,
maimed.

They are never perfect.
No. So often they are wrong,
so wrong.
Yet, so often they are right
beyond right.
We have not lived
the long and painful years
they have.
How can we argue?
How can we not love the very ground
their youthful feet once walked?
How can we not honor the effort
they made,
to build us and shape us,
bright monuments
to the goodness
that can be found,
that is,
warm and breathing
in the raw imperfection
of the human race?

- Emma Pearl

This poem is a little different, less old fashioned in tone, one might say, than my normal writing, my attempt to be poetic in a modernist manner. That, and a bit of a rant, the words that flow when a blessed person like myself, being away from home, misses her family very much. Hope you enjoyed!

Sunday, June 17, 2012

My brother James carves wood, literally.
He works the rough grain with knife and chisel and turns a blank slab into something unbelievable.

We had dear friends for dinner some evenings ago, shared chili and cornbread, then upside-down plum cake and poetry. Afterwards, the twilight waiting behind the dusk, we walked to the wood shop to see James's latest project.

He is building a table, a sort of of altar table, for a Methodist worship conference. He designed it himself, a table with two sturdy, yet graceful, legs supporting an expanse of hand scraped surface. The table comes apart, to be assembled and reassembled, and is fastened together with detailed mortar and tendon, a table with no metal, only warm, brown wood. It is as if an ancient carpenter had taken a thick tree from the earth and shaped it with medieval tools and skillful hands. The table is clean, and pure, a masterpiece of careful craftsmanship.

(Below is the completed projected. Pretty stunning, right?)

The sun hung low, pressed against the horizon, when we left the building scented with wood. The evening, still but for the clicking of crickets, met us with peace.

There is such a goodness in this changing of seasons, this refreshing of old memories, and this chance at new beginnings, this circle that wraps up our lives. The circle brings us back, to where we were, shows us how we've changed, how old things are no more, and awes us with God's faithfulness.

Here I am, in another summer, watching my little siblings carouse about the yard in the glee of childhood, feeling the weight of new responsibilities, the crowded, unavoidable business of this time of year, yet stilled by the weight of quiet. Summer, with its stifling heat, its long days of labor in a sweltering kitchen, heat cooled by sudden and furious rains, has a stillness to it, a stillness that pulls me from the kitchen, in the quiet of evening, to the sunset in the night air, echoes of childish laughter on the gray night breeze.

And I find, in that stillness, a place to pause and press my heart up against my soul, to listen to the beat I know so well, remember my own childhood, my old dreams and old passions. They are still there, under my adult skin, wound tightly, balled up in my throat. Write. They say. Write about everything. Write about life, its goodness, and its grief.

Adulthood does come. We do move on. But in our moving on, our childhood clings to our quickening feet, clamoring to be remembered, to be carried with us. The seasons, with the warmth of memory, remind us of what we've left behind, carry us full circle, and offer us a moment, like an hour on the round path of a clock face, to start again, to remember, and to reflect.

May I offer you a blessing? That this summer, as the heat pushes up against you, and your lives are filled and full, that your heart will come full circle, and our Father's grace, and faithfulness, will awe you and inspire you, and grant you peace.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

It was not hard.
I piled purple plums
clinging, wet, to each other,
glimmering with a ripe glimmer
and shiny with sugar.
I poured and pressed them,
into pastry rolled
thick and buttery.
I pulled the limpid dough
up
and over the rich red fruit,
then put it in the oven.
The hour fled by,
warmed by the gradual growing
of the deep scent,
the quivering aroma
of summer,
of childhood,
of goodness wrapped in piecrust,
a medieval sort of luxury,
a messy, gooey,
glimmering
goodness.

For a little while
I had forgotten those dear old friends,
treasured books and companions
evenings spent in stillness.
But no more.
I am rising from heavy years,
remembering the goodness,
the sun and the earth,
the fearlessness
of childhood.